30 April 2013

The #concretewords link up currently lives at Nacole's place at sixinthehickorysticks join in with us over there. To find out more about #concretewords, click here

This week's prompt was utterly irresistible and you get me just about as authentic as you will get. It is - the piano****

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Frail, tiny, elderly lady leaning with her arm for support, on
the curve of the wing-shaped case of the grand piano. Gently waving her
arthritic hands in time to my tentative playing of elementary pieces from the old
primer. Her long necklaces gently swaying as she moved within confined space, teaching,
imparting and carefully cultivating.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Stumbling self-consciously through ‘Solo per cembalo’ for the
pivotal grade examination. Teenage hormones crushing confidence, fingers falter
and hit right notes at the wrong time. The corner of the eye sees the examiner
is disengaged, concurrently absorbed in picking his nose and writing,
scratching deeply the scathing remarks into the paper.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Realising in mid-teens that I could use the piano to reproduce
songs heard just a few times and without needing music. Guided by intuition and
a sizeable aural memory bank, I was able to adopt a style allowing flexibility
away from written music and enabling freedom to worship in song. It was a
crucial juncture, this acknowledgement of a God-given gift and was the spur to
re-engage with it fully and go back to piano study after a break of a couple of
years.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Challenging Nanna to a chromatic scale race from the
extremities to the middle of the piano playing all 88 keys in sequence, her
ascending, me descending. She herself weakened and recuperating after a bout of
pernicious anaemia having spent much time with her terminally sick younger
sister. Her hands where the olive, Olay drenched skin had long given up its
elasticity, still deceptively agile and we reached the 44th note in
the contest at roughly the same time. Motor skills unused in decades still
resident in her dancing digits.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

University teacher whose often sherry-seasoned breath filled
the small, sound-proofed box rooms, where we took lessons. His imagination that
paced corridors and opened doors to previously unknown pieces. Favourites were
aural impressionist paintings by Debussy and peculiarly, beautiful pieces
published after composers’ deaths, where I learned to master the art of complex
musical fractions, four against three. ‘Pedal
with your ears my dear!’ he often cried, one of the most lucid lessons he left
with me.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Now as the teacher watching over pupils who wanted to
do-it-all. Listening to the Dying Swan,
dead already within a few bars. Admiration for the boy whose fingers assuredly
flitted with a feisty lightness through the De’il
Among the Tailors, but who otherwise never uttered more than a few words.
Adult airline pilot who wanted to play Concertos
but vanished from the radar within a few lessons. Tentative pensioner,
confidence scarred, Jesus her best friend later in life, duetting together I
know Him so well, art never more appropriately mirroring life. In all the
learning, pedagogue always being educated by the apprentices.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Music is an essence that leaks out of my pores and has passed
to the next generation. We encouraged each one of our children to pursue the
study of at least one instrument and to learn to love music. As a mother at the
piano I was able to help them over the years, sitting with them while they practised, to foster the discipline and for them coming through to nurture their own
genetically inherited gifts. (This process was definitely not without tears,
tantrums and much wallowing of the artistic temperament on all sides). The
blessings have multiplied and each child is today involved with music at their
own church. I was in floods of tears the first time I heard our eldest son lead
worship (not least because he and I probably had the most arguments about
practise but also knowing that his musical gifts have been clearly blessed by
the Holy Spirit.)

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

To play the black and white keys for Your glory Father
whether alone or with a team of fellow musicians. To play, to sing your praises
so Your Holy Spirit enables every fibre of my being, heart and soul to give to
others a small portion of what you have lavished upon me. Sometimes creating
roadblocks by desiring affirmation from others to boost fragile esteem, for
them to say that You have blessed them, so in turn I can feel warm, fuzzy
goodness within. Other times feeling overlooked because others' personal
preferences are different and another musician is exalted with plaudits.

But
exactly who am I to say how your love, grace and mercy are made known to
others? Discordant and hollow piano with broken strings and rotting case is
left when Your love is absent.

88
keys 52 white and 36 black

Recently I was playing Abide
With Me on the piano to practise for a funeral, where I needed to lead the
congregation in singing as well. The hymn has the effect of invoking tears
easily, there’s just something about it that does that to me. Perhaps it is
having heard it played by Yorkshire Brass Bands (the world's best) or Emilie Sande’s soulful
performance at the Olympic opening ceremony. I figured the best thing was to
keep playing and singing it out to execute the combination of notes, giving the
right weight to rich harmonies and to make the words more habitual so as not to
be taken over by emotion.

In the repetitions God suddenly whispered at a junction with
only me in the audience, the significance of just these four words ‘ills have no weight’. It is something
that I can't explain adequately in words yet, partly because it's one of those situations you need to have lived to understand. So for now I will say it was
extremely deep and significant. God is right there in the detail and because he knows me thoroughly the whisper was only for me, in that moment.

And this is why He wanted me to keep playing on
so I could hear Him speak.

At the Piano, oftentimes a place of Holy Ground

****

After Nanna’s death it seemed appropriate to invest some of
the money she bequeathed to us into a new piano. This is the instrument that has
so far moved with us three times.

29 April 2013

23 Aprilmy lovely brothermoving on in an area of forgivenessmother in law's boss raspberry jam++++

24 Aprilan evening in the pub with the music groupmany reminders that God looks after the sparrowsgood work that the local Foodbank is doing in the face of Social Welfare changes++++25 Aprilconfirmation of employmentposting a blog on the end of transitionHaagen Dazs ice-cream

++++

26 April an early hours blogpost on blessings and how powerfully it spokeimportance of being my God-made self on the bloghand creams (from another lady keyboard player/worship leader - she knows!)++++

27 Aprilbeing fifty and feeling way more blessed than olddaughter's macaroonstime with our children and their partners over exceptionally lovely food

25 April 2013

A pile of rocks made for remembrance. Remembrance after leaving the
wilderness, as the Israelites did as told in Joshua Chapter 4. Made for when a definite sign came along that this time was finished, y’know all
loose ends neatly tied up, put it in a box and move on.

But I sense that the season
of transition is complete for now, and it is as though I stepped over a dotted line on an inconsequential day rather than any thing more solid. It is where I acknowledge that some things will
carry on and be a work in progress, but other things have changed for good.

to celebrate

Re-connecting with
God

In
regular prayer, bible reading, spending time in His presence. Most importantly re-establishing a rhythm which had been squeezed out in the busyness of
child-rearing, work and life. To
know that life really is just so much better with these things, simply because of desire and not guilt.

Trying to share these things with others has felt as though I have been explaining self-indulgent rest. I am thankful that He knows what it really is and just need to let the Holy Spirit do His work.

Re-finding my cooking
mojo

I
got out of the habit of cooking regularly years ago and it became the Scotsman’s job. During this time I have learned to love cooking
again. Working out recipes for cooking on a budget is no longer a chore and the
look of disappointment on #2 son’s face when he realises he will be missing his
favourite dish if he is doing something else is priceless.

Re-engaging with all
the arts

I
am primarily a musician and in church work with a group of musicians who share
the load of leading and are a generally good all round bunch of people to hang
out with. Sure there are the usual tussles between people in the congregation
who know how they want things done and tell you how it could be done better.
But all in all music and singing has been restorative.

I
also studied Art to a high level at school and lately I have begun writing. My
favourite pieces are where all the facets of the arts are combined in one
blogpost (and I still wear a failed English A Level with pride!) I really don't care if I have a readership of one or a million and if other people don't get it (OK some days I might care a little bit.) A new camera
has been acquired for my birthday this coming weekend and I have particularly
learned to love photograph the ordinary to make something a little less ordinary, whilst
listening out for God-whispers.

ParentingI am continually astounded that I was ever entrusted, along with the Scotsman with the lives of three children. And there but for the grace of God we are all still here. Theoretically we are empty nesters, though I suspect the younger two offpsring may be semi-detached for a while yet. It is one of the generally recognised periods of transition when the regular job of parenting has come to an and children no longer need you in the same way. And though I am terribly biased they are all fantastic young people who love Jesus, in spite of our parenting and some of the cr*p they have witnessed growing up as Preacher's Kids. I'm so looking forward to seeing them on my 50th birthday this weekend!

Learning to live with lessFinancial challenges have meant living with less in general and being aware of where money was being frittered away. I used to comfort-shop, to buy something to cheer myself up after a difficult day, not things that were necessarily needed. That's stopped now and I don't think I will ever go back to it. We have also sold a number of books online to downsize.

Twitter CommunityFinding real community, wisdom and gentle support from lovely people on Twitter. One of the hardest things to get used to in the last two years has been no longer being a minister's wife (the Scotsman is no longer a church-based minister, but continues in a similar vocation in a chaplaincy role). Unravelling from this for me, has been a major journey companion during transition. Meeting people who know this through twitter has at times been a life-saver, places and blogs where I have safely been able to say ME TOO all in capitals. It is undeniably precious and I am so grateful for it.

Works in progress

We
have yet to complete the sale of our house in our previous place (complicated) and consequently live with continued financial pressure. A close family member faces cancer treatment
imminently. I wish I could leave these and other things behind in the river that has been
crossed, but that is the nature of walking with God, always journeying and
learning on the way.

I have been unemployed for 18 months but am due to start some temporary work in just over a week. I still live with mild depression but now as opposed to say 10 years ago I have so much more awareness of God's presence within in it. I want to know that 'every blessing' is not always something happy or good. It might be a downright painful experience to be taken through, but if it is something that God has given to use and meet us in a deeper way, then I really can sing 'Blessed be the name of the Lord' in all its glorious fullness. Not in a banal, happy, let's be clappy, shallow and inconsequential way

---------------------

So I look back, sing and feel the lyrics of another song ‘I will never be the same again’ which seems to have cropped up at significant moments during the last two years. (And I even forgive the cheesy 1980’s Amy Grant style chord shifts in the mid-section
because the words are so good). I’m not totally certain exactly where I came
from, nor how I got to this point, but I know I’ve shifted somehow across a dotted line and the door has closed on this chapter.

23 April 2013

I was reading
a blogpost on forgiveness late last night so went off to sleep mulling it over.
How we often need to forgive someone over and over because the pain of
something keeps coming back and our minds default back to the original
position. We seem to get stuck in a cycle and unable to break out of the need
to forgive again and again.

Instances where the Scotsman and I have been in hurtful
situations involving the same people meandered in and out. He seems to be good at processing these sorts of things and for him often the forgiveness is done quickly and underlined with a solid line. But I find things pop out of the woodwork unexpectedly like unwelcome house guests every now and again, stirring up old feelings. Sometimes from a decade or two ago.

photo credit: david nikonvscanon

When I tell the Scotsman he patiently reminds me of the need to let go again and forgive again. Even if he doesn’t roll his eyes in front of me, I swear I can hear them rolling! It is right to keep on forgiving, but often it just feels hard, messy and never ending.

So why when
it is the same initial situation on the surface do the two of us react so differently?

Does it mean
that I am more of a sinner and need to forgive more?

Does it mean
that because the Scotsman has let go more easily, he is right and I am wrong?

Actually

The
very last time I was ‘dealing’ with some of these feelings, again, immediately
afterwards I spoke to my son on the phone. During the conversation he told
me he was proud of me (you know a bam, significant, treasure-in-your-heart
moment) and right in that space God was saying ‘This is what matters, not that.’ (And it's not the first time God has stepped in to whisper that very thing over the cacophony of anger and email shouting).

And actually no it doesn't happen like this every time. That would be way too neat, formulaic. Most of the time there is something of an undignified long distance see-saw going on. Let the weight go, take some of it back, forth and back. But for the times when my ears are unblocked long enough to hear, it is beyond clear

this is what matters

He knows my struggles, my feeble attempts to forgive and the polite insistence of taking back weight and pain, to try and nurse it my own way. And yet He loves me.

He knows the things I don’t know, the riddled hollows in a wooden, unforgiving heart and the gaps that need filling.

And those
whispers will come from the
unexpected people and places. They come and find me right there in the holes.

Yesterday
morning we were still at my dad’s house having travelled there to spend some
time with him and also the Scotsman’s parents. I found myself telling dad
something I’ve never told him before and it meant as we drove home I felt a
mixture of relief and a bit of a heavy heart (I wrote about it yesterday here.)

We attended
the evening service back at home, which was done in the Taize style. As part of
the service each person attending was handed a stone as they arrived. Early on
during the service we were invited to place our stone around a painting of the
cross, to represent putting everything of the day at the feet of Jesus. It was
just a small part of the service but because of what happened earlier I know I was laying a lot down at that point, so
this is the bit that spoke the most significantly.

God has been
bringing stones to my attention a lot lately.

A couple of
years ago following a move we embarked on a period of personal, professional
and geographical transition. I also entered a period of time where I felt an
absence of God, doubting his plans and purposes and doubting Him too. There
were times during this period when God said very little indeed and to be honest
it felt more like moving from the frying pan and into the fire. But slowly it
became apparent that this was a time to re-connect with God on a much deeper
level.

Recently the
writer Adam S McHugh quoted this on twitter:

Looking back
over everything that has happened in the last two years I think I have been
waiting for something ‘concrete’ to tell me that this wilderness time has
passed. I have even taken a photo of a pile of stones in readiness. But while I
have been waiting and looking, it has gently snuck past.

The laying
down of the stones last night in church also reminded me very strongly of the
closing scenes in the film Schindler’s List.

A procession of the now-elderly Jews who worked in Schindler’s factory walk
to and set stones on his grave – a traditional Jewish custom denoting gratitude
to the deceased. The actors portraying the major characters walk alongside them.
Oskar Schindler was a flawed man but he loved the Jewish people enough to put
his own life at risk and save most of them from certain death (this particular scene plays from
approx 2:28 into the clip)

Wherever we
are on our journey with God He loves us too much to leave us where we are.

And He
uses whatever means He needs to, to remind us of that.

This post is linked up at Tania Vaughan's place for #mondayministry - check it out and join in

21 April 2013

Today I told
my dad for the first time that I have had episodes of depression on and off for
about 25 years.

I don’t yet
know whether the admission to him will be significant or not. It's a fairly big deal, there is a lot of
history and entanglement, plus the absence of healthy adult communication.

But it's done now.

Spending time
with dad is depression trigger itself. And from my own experiences, the sort where it takes one to know one, I do think he
is mildly depressed himself - a combination of good old foibles and not
having been able to grieve healthily after mum died 4½ years ago. But he is yet
to see that himself.

If you pray, I would value your prayers.

That Love
will keep reaching down, where it needs to.

I feel a little fragile, but my God is not.He is faithful and His strength of hope resides within.

16 Aprilwalking outside without a coatenthusiastic birdsongfinal bits of stuff removed from our previous house today++++

17 Aprilwi-fi (you are grateful especially when it doesn't work for several hours)finding another tweeter I know in real lifecreating with pinwords and phonto++++18 Aprilsinging at music practicemother in law home from hospitalextra assurance of God's love prior to not good news++++

19 April 2013

Joining with
the community that is Five Minute Friday with the lovelyLisa Jo Baker. We like to write, not for comments or traffic or anyone
else’s agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of
syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the
speaker.

Five minutes on:

Jump

*************

Jump
(for my love) those Pointer Sisters shriek at us in their flared, spangly white, against insistent thumping soundtrack. That fop-haired English actor who wiggles
his hips and Dad-dances down the Downing Street stairs, seal-performing for all
the portraits of past important-leaders-of-the-land.

Jumping
long. Lengthily held world records, rarely broken. Beamon’s record of a two
feet increment in 1968 demonstrated in our small one-time village chapel. Take-off
where the preacher stood and landing in the middle of the road outside the door.

Armstrong
jumping from earth to moon in a rocket. He had the measure of what he was
seeing and the significance of history, coloured by Your eyes.

17 April 2013

A number of people have written recently about the realities of struggles, mess and doubts of daily walking with Jesus. I'm adding mine here because I am weary from carrying it around for so long and it is a major element of the clutter part of the blog title. It often happens without warning and in unexpected places...*************We went to a
church meeting last week. It was a good meeting. I had led worship and
the songs seemed to fit well with what was being said and with what was prayed.
Good things were shared. Yet I still came home feeling rattled.

Why?

Actually that thing when
people share prayer answers or pray earnestly for someone else was happening, so good yes? Except when there is a tiny spark of comparison in there and I start to shrink and shrivel because:

I have similar needs that are not being answered in the same way

I don’t pray quite so earnestly for something, so maybe that’s why I'm not getting answers for that thing

I have reluctance to share a particular struggle with the rest of the church and feel guilty for it

So by the
time we got home my inner critic had already made a précis of these thoughts
and was furiously scribbling a checklist on a clipboard:

Rubbish at
prayer - check

Not praying enough – check

Don't get the answers that others get – check

Don't share enough with others – check

I also had to
phone someone when I got home (the sort of person it is not necessarily good to
talk to when I’m already feeling a tad vulnerable.) So now these thoughts had been through several cycles and negativism had been reduced to the lowest common denominator:

Not

Good

Enough

Eventually I did sit down
and scrawl my heart out to my heavenly Father. All the negative thoughts accumulated in that short space of time pencilled onto paper. Warts and all. As I wrote gradually the weight of invalidation lifted and a healthier perspective came back into focus.

Some time ago I either heard a speaker or read a writer who referred to a hockey stick to illustrate how the Psalmist pours out His heart to God, plunging low with his feelings and doubts. Having spent time in God’s presence the Psalmists feelings are turned around by God at the point of meeting in the crook of the J shape of the hockey stick. Not the world's greatest illustration but it has stuck with me (maybe because a major part of my school sporting legacy was to be dumped from the school hockey team..)

photo credit: chelmsfordblue

Confessions

It would be great to avoid the palaver of even getting into this position of inner-self-beating in the first place over small-things-that-become-big-things because
it is difficult and more than a little depressingA lifetime of thought patterns learned in childhood, slowly germinated along the way and deep-rootedFor the times when prayer is not the first port of call in the refuge of the storm and thoughts are given permission to
fester because that is easier, especially if a
raw nerve has been trodden uponConsoling the hurt I feel, feeding it and giving it sympathy rather than acknowledging it and handing over the burden to my heavenly FatherFor the times in the past where this cycle has been overwhelming and has multiplied into the beating of a thousand tiny hockey sticks in the mind, developing into full-blown periods of depressionGrief for these times where happiness has been completely crushed and overwhelmedAll consuming seasons where the comparison habit has unwittingly leaked sharp fragments into the tender hearts of my own childrenThat is great sadness

But never ever venturing down this unhealthy route of absorbing negative comparisons again is highly unlikely. Many lessons have taught me that I know that these warped perspectives are truly and fully met head on in the very act of praying, wrestling or handing over before God, however we do this part. Something then cracks open, allowing the divine exchange of His love to take place in our hearts. I do not
know how, but I know that it does, figuratively speaking between the heel and the toe of the hockey stick. In willing hearts I believe God is in the business of breaking the cycle of the comparison habit wherever and however it manifests itself. And He in His grace still chooses to use me to do His work while the work is in progress. The very antithesis of what comparison tries to tell us.Processing thoughts when others lay their weakness cards on the table gives us two reactional choices:

to listen and hear them out, walk away from comparison and enter into the mess, with grace

invoke the comparison, inwardly roll our eyes, tut and say to ourselves 'thank goodness I'm not like that', ignoring the fact that THAT with maybe a different face is looking right back at us eyeball to eyeball

The stupid comparison habit is out on the table, or in this case out on the field. I am more than happy to keep knocking seven bells out of it with a hockey stick when it's needed. And on days when I'm not so successful at stopping those comparisons carousing I suspect there will be a team of you who have my back and will be waiting on the benches ready to help me out with your hockey sticks.It's game.

Is this something you struggle with?Are you able to nip comparison and negative thoughts in the bud before they start running riot on the field?

14 April 2013

On Saturday during a walk in the Peak District around Ladybower Reservoir I felt compelled to take photos of the one of the sinkholes. I have no particular idea why but my eyes were drawn to the circular patterns and perhaps I thought they may come in useful for a photo project some day. (I am also the sort of person who really hesitates to say 'God prompted me').Yesterday in church during worship we sang 'I will never be the same'. It is not a song we sing that often and always when we do it resonates very deeply. Being willing to allow God to do the work he needs to do in us in order for us to move on with Him.

There are higher heights, there are deeper seas,

Whatever you need to do, Lord do in me.

That song is mostly used in response after a sermon, but yesterday it was sung before the speaker. Maybe God has a lot to say..?Our visiting preacher Rob White spoke on Joseph and here are a few of the key points that really stood out (some paraphrased):Joseph's story is not a just tale from historyWe are all part of God's story here and now, living storyStory = ADventure, ADversity, ADvance (I tweeted this during the sermon, too good not to share)Dreams borne of God do not have to die in the pit

And the reason I was inspired to take the sinkhole photos was to merge the image with Rob's words:

After the sermon people were invited to the front for prayer if they felt their dreams had died, for whatever reason, health, finance, bereavement, bad luck. Not only was Rob generous with God's word, he was freely extending the hand of God to those who needed it. Friends who needed a helping hand out of the pit. A number of people made their way forward, while we sang 'In Christ alone'.For us this has been a season of financial difficulty and for me unemployment, but through it all I have been conscious of God's presence in a new way. My dreams have not died, they have been re-ignited in the face of struggle.I so love those words in the middle of the final verse of In Christ Alone. He holds EVERYTHING in his hand and NOTHING can separate me from Him. Sure I know those words well and they are real to my heart, so nothing new there. But it was as though He was underlining them in bold just to make sure I'd heard, again. And the tears flowed. Doubt will shout louder sometimes and try to rob us of God-given dreams, but He's always one step ahead in our story.No guilt in life, no fear in deathThis is the power of Christ in meFrom life's first cry to final breathJesus commands my destinyNo power of hell, no scheme of manCan ever pluck me from His handTill He returns or calls me homeHere in the power of Christ I'll stand

8 Aprilgood quality digital hearing aids tubes and batteries1& 2 all free on nhs - thankful, missed a lot as a child and young adult++++

9 Aprilyoung spring birds emergingPhatfish songsfriend who started work today after serious illness++++

10 Aprilwatching the Scotsman drive an Aston Martin Vantageusing new cameracreativity is intelligence having fun (Einstein)++++12 Aprilchat with the Scotsman on how his work is goingtransition end in sightgood Jeeves jokes by boys at dinner table++++

13 Aprilspending time with wider familyrain holding off while walking in Peak Districtdelicious Indian meal++++

12 April 2013

Joining with the community that is Five Minute Friday with
the lovelyLisa Jo
Baker. We like to write, not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s
agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of
syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the
speaker.

Five minutes on HERE

In
memory of

Florence
Lucas

the
beloved child of Josiah and Esther Lucas

born
November 4th 1869

died
October 31st 1871

The
Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord

You
are a name in the list of thousands in our family tree. You died on All Hallows’
Eve just short of your second birthday. Those words from Job 1:21 inscribed on
your stone. Rock sheltered under the branches of the ancient tree.

Before
pressing the camera shutter, my prayer whispered to friends who had recently
lost their own children before-the-natural-order-of-things.

God–shaped
hole that was left in your parents heart. Your story is unknown save that your
father was the village rat catcher.

God,
He knows your story.

He
knows your parents’ story and their hearts too.

We
all stand here with God-shaped holes in our lives. We can choose to look at
them, see them and ask for your love to come and fill the aching spaces. Or we
can bury them deep and place a heavy headstone on top of them allowing the soil
to nurse the hurts and fertilise the wounds.

Yes
the loss of a child leaves a particularly painful and unique God-shaped hole.

Yet
still we all have holes.

When
we are before You, You can reveal them to us if we will see.

And
if we allow it You will write those love messages in the spaces between the words
of our story.